Sounds of Silence
by WhenLighteningStrikes
Summary: It's only when she's left his room, and he's lying awake, aching for something he can't explain, that it occurs to him. She hadn't said his name. CaseyDerek
1. Chapter 1

_**a/n** bamaslamma29 told me to- "Write an M-rated fic, woman" _

_**DISCLAIMER:** Yep mine. Mike and Ash promised to act this out._

* * *

_Close your eyes  
For your eyes will only tell the truth  
And the truth isn't what you want to see  
In the dark it is easy to pretend  
That the truth is what it ought to be._

**Phantom of The Opera**

* * *

(He's waiting for the universe to revert back.)

Of all the implausible scenarios in the world, this would be the one entering Guinness Book of World Records for 'Wasn't _Never_ Gonna Happen.'

Because _Casey? _Drunk. Groping everything in sight (in a very politically correct move refusing to differentiate people on basis of minor differences. Like gender.)

He drives her home, while she's still singing 'Aqua' songs off-key. (He's stone-cold sober. And the universe _really _needs to get its act right.)

(And the fucking irony is, this is all for _Truman_. His crazy, neurotic step-sister is giving up her principles for a guy who's probably, even now, in a double-bed with her _cousin_. He _hates _Truman.)

He never over-analyses why (or analyses at all actually, that's _her _job) but for some reason he _knows; _nobody should treat Casey that way.

* * *

She goes up to his room instead of her own, and he glares at her as she sits on his bed.

"What the _hell_ were you doing."

She pouts up at him, and if she was sober this would've never happened (because there are these freaking boundaries, which nobody talks about, but they're still _there_.) "What's your problem, Derek? I thought you wanted me to loosen up."

"Not by telling _my _date that she's hot, and you'd be up for a ménage a trios, with us. (He doesn't remember one bit how he'd spit out his drink. On his dates' dress. Not at all.)

"She _was _hot." Casey slurs.

"So you'd have been ready to sleep with me."

He regrets it as soon as it's out, (_you literally just crossed the line) _his stomach so tied-up in knots, he can barely breathe.

She glances up, "I'm in your room. Duh."

(This isn't following any script he's ever written, and he doesn't know his _lines_, it's driving him insane.)

"You don't know what you're saying. You're drunk. Go to sleep."

She's looking at him with a half-smile on her face, looking like a mischevious kid, and _god this needs to end now. _"Make love to me."

He's stopped breathing.

There's no mirror in front of him, but whatever his face looks like makes her sigh in frustration, "De-_rek_. I'm on the rebound. You've to make love to me. That is the only way I'll get over Truman."

"Casey," and he's never sounded like that before, "Casey, _please_ don't." (_stopohgodpleasestop_)

She's still wearing her secret (_insanelyhot_) smile. "You want me to beg, don't you? You love it when I do. You make me beg for everything." She's suddenly down on her knees in front of him, and then she looks at him (_withthoseeyes. ohgodthosefuckingeyes.) _"Please, Derek. _Please_. I _want _you"

She's broken him without even touching him once. (_Congrat-fuck-ulations Case)_

* * *

(He's thought about it.

What kind of a guy would he be if he hadn't? She used to come out of the shower in just a towel, and he was _glad _he was taking the shower after her, because by that time he actually needed it.

But this…this was something else.)

She's on his bed and he's so incredibly turned on. Her hair is splayed over his pillow, her eyes half shut and she makes him want to fall to _his _knees and give her all the pleasure that she deserves. He's drunk with just the _thought, _the _possibility_. She doesn't want _him. _He's just the re-bound guy, the means to an end. (And it's so fucked-up, he can't even bring himself to care.)

Her hands reach out for his buttons, and it's sin on his skin, and it's never..._never _felt like _this_ before. She runs her hand slowly over his bare skin, and he's twelve again, secretly watching those goddesses on-screen. And he never realized it, but they never compared, because she's fucking _gorgeous_.

He wants to touch her so badly, he's half-crazed with longing.

He slips his hand under her dress, and runs them lightly down her side. She arches a little and his breath gets caught in his throat, choking him. Her skin is so smooth, he can _feel _the sin, like it's tangible, and _fuck,_ dreams will _never _satisfy him again. Ever.

His lips are on hers, and they're still fighting, neither of them willing to relinquish the control. He's determined to make her want him just as much as he wants her. _Scream for me, Case._

And when she does, he almost comes undone.

He kisses her bare shoulder, and trails his still-damp hair across the skin on her neck, as he bites her lightly (and he wants to bite hard, leave a mark, tell everyone she belongs to _him_.) and as she shivers with the contact, his hearts thuds at a crazy pace. She's just a shadow in the dark room, but her touch is heart-stoppingly real.

(And it hurts so badly every time she looks over at him with the trusting look, and he can't tell her to _staythefuckaway._)

He slides her dress off with practiced ease, and he can _feel _her body heat up even from the distance, searing through him, till he can't think, and all his though reduces to _CaseCaseCase. _She tries to cover herself up in instinctive embarrassment, but he stops her. (_She'sfuckinggorgeous_) He can't get enough of looking at her, and the slightest distance cuts through him sharply.

"Derek," she whispers softly into the darkness, her voice still laced with alcohol, sounding small, "Do we have to take _all _our clothes off?"

(And he's never been punched harder.)

Because it hits him like a physical blow; _he doesn't deserve this_.

He realizes he's said it out loud, only when she replies with, "Don't deserve what?" And her voice, sounding like a polite child's, tightens the knot in his stomach.

_This innocence_.

He can't do this.

He moves away (and he's _not shaking, fuck you, he's not_.) and she protests a little at the lack of warmth.

"Casey," he manages to say her name without breaking (_where's the fucking medal_) "Have you ever done this before?"

She looks down, not meeting his steady gaze, "I've...read about it."

He's suffocating with the need, desire and the _wrongness _of it all. "Please go."

She seems to realize what he means, her eyes widen (_ohgodmakeherstop_) "You're leaving me? Just like Truman."

He doesn't say anything because for the first time in his life, it's not about _him. _

She doesn't look up again, and he feels the ice running through his veins. "Casey, look at me." She refuses, picking up her dress with trembling fingers (and how much did she drink, anyway?) A sudden wetness on his hands makes him pause and _fuck, she's crying_.

She attempts to get up, but he stops her with his body, and _yes, it's a bad idea (Because she...she calls it 'making love.')_ "Why are you crying?"

"You don't want me, do you." Her voice sounds like a petulant two-year olds', and she's still slurring. "Nobody wants me. Truman didn't, and now you don't.

(_Is she fucking serious?_)

"I just want to know what it feels like. Once."

He can't do this to her. He _can't._

His hands reach out of their own violition. He touches her, and _does this tell you about want? _She moans when his hands caress her beneath her bra, and all he wants is to hear it again and again, till he's sick with the longing. His cool breath make her nipples harden, and it's his hottest experience till date. His hand slips below, lower. He touches her through the barrier of silk. rubbing his thumb slowly, pulling it lightly over her sensitized skin, and _oh fuck, she's so wet, for him_. His lips silence hers as he continues to touch. His deliberate hands slowly, painstakingly building a fire within her, till she's moving beneath him, and the sensations are so strong, so real she has to _(can't)_ turn away.

_You're beautiful, most beautiful when you come_. And she moans at the thought, his words on her skin, his hands and mouth driving her, till she can't think or see, only _feel. _

She tries to pull him down instinctively, but he stays away. "Tonight, it's about you." He whispers. And he watches her, drinking her in, her hair tangled on his hand, her chapped lips forming words he can't catch, he stores the memory (because _this _is all he'll ever have.)

As she comes underneath him, a low moan escaping her, he _almost_ loses his last shred of control, _almost_ bends down to get his fulfillment. _Almost. _And it would just take that centimetre to touch her fully, to feel her smooth skin on his, to never have to _wonder _again.

But he doesn't.

Because this time...in some strange, twisted, fucked-up way...

He cares.

* * *

It's only when she's left his room, still stumbling, and he's lying awake, aching for something he can't explain, that it occurs to him.

She hadn't said his name.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

_**a/n - **Everyone should read Phoenix Satori's review. Her analysis is better than the story itself. :)_

_DISCLAIMER: Yep Mine. Mike and Ash promised to act this out for me._

* * *

_Softly, deftly, music shall surround you ...  
Feel it, hear it, closing in around you ...  
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,  
in this darkness which you know you cannot fight -  
the darkness of the music of the night.  
_

**Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

It's like an itchy tag at the back of his shirt, a word at the tip of his tongue that he _just_ _can't_ remember, a constant humming in his head; _she hadn't said his name_.

He doesn't care. Of course he doesn't.

But once the thought enters, it refuses to leave, torturing him endlessly. Had she imagined someone else? Every time he touched her, did she think of Truman?

There was this once upon a time, when all he used to do was take and take. He used till it broke, or lost his attention. And then there was now, when he'd given up something and she'd wrapped it up neatly, with a bow on top, and printed 'return to sender'.

(Isn't irony so fucking ironic sometimes?)

* * *

He needs a psychiatrist.

(Anyone, _anything _that can make him forget that soft sigh she'd made when he'd touched her. He needs to be able to look at her, and not remember the _feel _of her sharp angles and smooth skin.)

They're sitting at the dinner table, and she's spectacularly managed to avoid him all day.

Not that he _wanted _a confrontation. But this was _Casey, _how could she not have a color-coded list all prepared, with the uncountable things that were wrong. Unless…

(Unless she doesn't care at all.)

He's tempted to run his foot over her leg, gently. He wants her to bite her lip, and blush. He just wants a fucking _reaction_. Anything to tell him that she'd felt _something. _That she'd _thought _of him once. That he'd permeated beneath the fog of alcohol, and made her _feel_. (That she'd wanted to say De-_rek _like she did so many times every day.)

(Forget psychiatrist, he needs a fucking brain transplant.)

She gives a muted gasp, and he breaks the sound barrier in looking up. She's staring at something on his arm (and it makes white-hot ice run through his veins.) He looks down and (_yes, _you_ did this, Case)_

She's still staring at the finger-nail marks on his arm (and suddenly he's back in his room again, burning with what he can't have. He doesn't even register the pain of her sharp nails, as he watches her, except this time, this time…_De-rek_.)

She pushes back her chair, and with a muttered 'excuse me', she's gone.

(And he's left in that suffocating room, alone. His skin imprinted with memories of what hadn't even happened.)

* * *

He blasts his music_. _Because (did you ever notice how _loud _the sound of silence is?)

And it's not like he _knew _it would bring her to his room. (She's not predictable or anything.)

He doesn't look up as she shuts off the music. He doesn't look up when his heartbeat flows with the sound of her breathing (and they're _both _harsh and just too loud.) He doesn't look up when she walks away.

But he does look up when she slides the lock on his door.

"What the hell are you doing."

And suddenly his eyes are hit by the image. That dress (he knows it well; he's seen it every night in his fantasies.) That fucking dress. How could she fucking _do _this to him.

She turns around slowly, the blue dress caressing her curves like he remembers well. (Of course he remembers. All of Canada had gotten to see what he looked like when he was aroused.)

"I…" she blushes, (and she's just eight now, and he's sick with the guilt, and revulsion and _ohgodneed_.) "I wanted to…you did…"

And he gets it.

(This isn't want, it isn't desire, it isn't '_making love'_.)

It's the clinical return of a "favor". So she wouldn't be in his _debt _any longer. So he wouldn't own even that little part of her that he'd managed to get.

This…this is closure.

(For her.)

He wants to push her out and lock the door, he wants to make her beg, he wants to look in those eyes and find them mirroring his own (_he wants her to say his name._)

But he doesn't do any of it. Because (he still doesn't have a psychiatrist, remember.)

She's still standing at his door, playing with the hem of her dress nervously, and something inside him snaps, "You'll have to come closer, you know."

She looks at him (_thoseeyes_) "No, I'm not...touching you…"

"You're going to be telepathically pleasuring me?" His voice sounds harsh in the enclosed space, but at least she can't hear the twisting of those hard knots in his gut. "Or are you going to pleasure yourself, watching me." (And _god _he's such a freak, he's hard at the very thought. Sometimes just her name is enough.)

She backs, pressing herself against the door, mortified. (And he wants to tempt her, till she _doesn't _remember right and wrong. Till she's as consumed by him, as _broken _for _him_, as he is for _her. _He wants her to fucking _want_ to scream his name.)

Then she starts dancing.

(_Fuck_)

He's off his bed in a flash, "Casey, no. _Please don't_." (And it's déjà vu all over again.)

She doesn't listen.

He wants to tear his eyes away, take that last shred of dignity and pretend this never happened. He wants to be able to stand there, as she dances circles around him, and maybe clap at the end, show his indifference. He wants to tell her that _no, no you don't make me feel anything. _

And fuck, he _can't_.

His eyes are glued to her, as she moves her body in silent rhythm to her own music. Her hair flying behing her, creating his deepest, most secret fantasies right in front of him.

And she's never danced like that before. Her dress flowing over her body like crystal water. Her beat blurring that thin line between _rightandwrong _that he's been treading since so long. Because this time, the whole of Canada isn't watching.

This time she's dancing for him.

Only him.

The thought, just the thought. Of her. Of her belonging to him. It makes him hard. It's just so easy for him to get hard, like a fucking ten-year-old. The mind-numbing immorality doesn't register, because he can't think of her as immoral. She's fucking _purity. _

He hates himself as his hand slips down, beneath his jeans, and then he's letting go of all he's been hiding behind, stroking himself furiously watching her (because there's no _shame now. It's just want and desire…and she'd called it 'making love.'_) He's given up, this is his defeat. He's finally letting her win. (And someday he hopes she fucking breaks on him, like he's broken for her.)

His hand moves in tandem with her body, and white-hot desire runs through him, till he's choking with the longing, and he can't think. The guilt and pleasure occupying equal parts, the frenzied heat of his hand, coupled with her movement. Just the thought of her breathing as she lay beneath him, just watching her hands move up her body as she dances for him.

(She looks straight at him at that moment when his mind explodes.)

The only thing he can see as he comes…

Her eyes_. _

* * *

She's stopped dancing.

Their eyes are caught on a stare-down, and he _can't _look away. He can sense her awakening, her nipples hard against the satin of her dress, her breathing labored. Her skin flushed with arousal, as she stares at him. And it's with a start he realizes it's because of him, watching him had turned her on _(wantsofuckingbadly) _and he's hard again.

(They need this now.)

He moves towards her, unconsciously, his brain clouded with lust (_she'd called it 'making love'_) "Casey…"

Her eyes are wide and she looks heartbreakingly young up-close. _Innocent. God no._

He reaches his hand out, "Case, let me…_please…_I…" (And this time. This time _he's _begging.)

"No..._no._"

"Casey…"

She backs up against his door again (_stopitpleasesomebody_) opening his lock and her eyes are terrified. (It cuts through him like a dull knife) "Don't touch me."

* * *

_Don't touch me. _

Fucking closure.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

_**a/n - **It just goes to show I love Derek beyond poetic, profound endings. _

_DISCLAIMER: Yep mine. Mike and Ash promised to act this out._

* * *

_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication  
Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation  
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in  
To the power of the music that I write  
The power of the music of the night_

**Phantom of The Opera**

* * *

Rewind. Pause. Play.

"Casey, you haven't touched your food." (_Don't touch me._) "I'm fine mom…just not very hungry." "Maybe you should consult the local vet, Nora." "De-_rek_." (_Don't touch me._) "Careful Lizzie, you're starting to sound like your sister there. You wouldn't want to grow up to be a fragile princess." (_Don't touch me_.)

It ends up with him being sent up to his room.

(_Don't touch me_.)

* * *

He has a reputation to live up to. And so he does. Because he's the director, he supervises the script. (He _never _begs.)

He knows she knows. She can hardly miss the constant stream of girls in their house. He doesn't know why they're there at all. He never promises anything, and they don't ask. (Apparently he's not the only fucking masochist around.)

There are times when he almost forgets. When his body takes over, and he actually _feels. (_And then he closes his eyes and _ohgodherfuckingeyes_.)

He hopes she hears through those thin walls. His name (that she never said) from someone else's lips. (Except its _Derek _and it's like a knife in his gut each time it isn't broken in half.) He hopes it keeps her awake at night. He hopes she hates all those girls, because they aren't her. He hopes he's so deep in her memories; she can't close her eyes without seeing him. (Because those marks on his arms _just won't go away_.) He hopes she remembers him, and touches herself and _hates _herself for the thoughts. Just like he does.

(He hopes she screams his name.)

* * *

He opens his door and she's there.

Her hair is tangled, and all over her face. She's wearing her dad's shirt, and she's heartbreakingly young. And he's angry. At her. For looking so untouchable, and innocent, and _wrong. _For making him stay awake at night, his heart pounding to the faint rhythm of the music she'd created so many days ago. For scarring his skin with memories. For leaving him. (_Don't touch me_.)

She looks straight at him (_goddamnyou_) "Touch me."

* * *

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... SIX YEARS ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

* * *

He's been walking in the rain, and he's soaking wet. The cold cutting through him sharply, till he's completely numb. And he should go home. Go home and stay _away_.

He ends up at her door.

She isn't even surprised. She feigns and she's a good actress, sometimes he _almost _believes her. (And then he looks into her eyes.)

"I thought Sam was holding his stag-party tonight."

(She likes to pretend. She always did. He doesn't know _why. _She knew as well as he did; he'd end up here.)

"Yeah, well I couldn't have all those dancers falling over me. Sam should get his two minutes of fame. What about you? I thought you were having a last minute girls-only session with Nora and Liz."

(He likes to pretend too.)

"I…I came here.

She moves in, not inviting him in. Except the difference between then and now is that she doesn't need to.

She's cooking something on the stove. And it hits him hard, the feeling. Of being home. Of something he never knew he wanted, and something he lost. (But something he never even had.)

Because tomorrow, she'll be his best friends' wife.

He doesn't know what it is. (He just can't fucking distinguish, because that's what she does to him.) He hates her, and sometimes he…doesn't hate her.

He moves closer (_nevercloseenough_) till he's standing right behind her. He doesn't say anything, just stands. The unnatural stiffness of her body the only indication she knows he's there. The water droplets from his hair fall on her, slowly sliding down her skin (and he wants her _soohgodbadly_). She shivers at the contact of the cold with her burning skin. But he doesn't move away. And neither does she.

"I'm so scared." She whispers it. And he wants to laugh, for admitting she's scared, _to him_. But he doesn't.

He bends his head and trails his lips down her neck. Her ladle stills, and she closes her eyes. He slides the strap of her nightgown and continues his movement. Never kissing her. Never lingering. Because just this _once _he wants her to want him. (And somewhere it changed to more than just _want_) He wants her to open her eyes and just see him. Not Sam. Him.

(She always says Sam's name. Like it absolves her of her revulsion and guilt. Like she sends it out to the universe, her faithfulness, the penance for her sin. She's with him, but she always says Sam's name. And this time _pleasejustonce _he wants to hear De-_rek_. Just once.)

He runs his hand on the soft skin of her wrist, taking her inside the house. Every room imprinted with a night before and the morning after. She's shivering from the pressure of his cold body on her warm one. And maybe a little bit of need. And something else (or maybe he's just deluded.)

Her nightgown is completely wet and sticking to her body like a second skin. The water-droplets on her skin make her look like a marble statue. But he can hear her heartbeat in sync with his own (_so loud, too loud_) and she's so fucking _real_.

He slides her nightgown off, and drinks her in. His eyes caressing her in a way that makes her blush as she twists her head away. He turns her head, because he wants her to see. He's never been good with words, and this time he wants her to read his eyes. (_Cansheseethedesperation?_)

(And he doesn't know when it changed. When he learnt how to make love.)

He touches her breasts almost reverently. Committing each sigh, each sound to his memory. (And it feels so much like _goodbye_.) She tastes a little like sunshine and secrets. Like a want that's almost a need.

The fire glows in the grate, lighting her up. The flames dancing over her skin, and here's something; he never pretends to himself. For him it's just her. It always has been.

His hands tease and tantalize till she's moving of her own violition. His tormenting hands bringing her to a point where (he hopes) she forgets how wrong this is. Till she forgets Sam, and that fucking white dress that he never wants to see. Because it always feels so right. He kisses her hungrily, wanting her taste to remain on his mouth forever. (_Becausehe'sfuckinginsane_.)

And soon, there are no more barriers; it's just his skin and hers, and that heady mixture of hardsoft_. _She's coursing through his vein like holy wine. Intoxicating and addictive.

"_Sam_."

It pierces through him. That name.

He raises his fingers to his mouth and tastes her. She stares at him, wide-eyed. Her skin flushed with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment that always gets him on his knees.

He enters her, and she closes her eyes again, and this…this is his last chance. She tries to move, to finish it, so she can go and wash off her sin. Pretend it never happened. So she can skip off to her happily ever after, while he stays in his own private hell.

But this time; he's done pretending.

It's agony, this staying still. But he manages. Because (did he mention he's done pretending?)

He's breathing his heart into her skin. _Stay with me. _

Her eyes fly open again, filled with confusion. And she's scared (she's always been scared of taking chances.)

"I'll make you happy." He whispers. "So damn happy. We'll fight like hell, and you'll rip my name apart. And then I'll be down on my knees for you. Till I've apologized without words. Because I don't do words. You know that. And you'll pretend to remain angry. But you'll love me too damn much, and I'll be able to see right through you anyway."

She tries to turn away; she doesn't want to hear this. But every movement makes white hot ecstasy run through their bloodstream so she stills again.

He strokes her hand gently with his finger, eliciting sharp goosebumps on her skin.

"We'll have to host all these stupid parties. And you'll pretend to be perfect. And then you'll Klutzilla and drop the wine on Amy's _beautiful, new Paris original. _And you'll go off tangent about how hockey is such a _foolish testosterone-filled sport_, and my teammates will look at you as if you're crazy. But secretly...secretly they'll all envy me._"_

"Don't…please…_don't_."

He wants to stop, but it's like all those dreams that used to wake him up, with a curious longing in the pit of his stomach, are all tumbling out. He's etching his words, his most secret fantasies onto her skin.

"She'll look like me. Her hair will _always_ be a mess, and she'll love hockey. But she'll have your eyes." He looks at her, his hand forming his name on her skin, "Your fucking, gut-wrenchingly beautiful eyes. I'll spoil her so much, and you'll scold her. She'll love me the best, but she'll go to you for all her skinned knees and heartbreaks. And she'll grow up thinking love is two dysfunctional people who never stop fighting, but just can't _stay the hell away _from each other_._"

She turns away, refusing to look at him. Ever line of her body screaming rejection.

He starts moving (because yes; this is how it ends.) The white hot desire is _just not compensating _for the emptiness. (For earth is hollow and I have touched the sky.)

Her breathing labors and she's so _beautiful. _Like a fucking goddess. Her eyes are shut again, and she's biting her lip, trying not to make any sound. _Let go, Case, let go. _

And suddenly he picks up speed, and her nails will leave their mark (but she's already left so many of them in places he swore he didn't have. And they won't ever heal.) He's kissing her frenziedly, touching every part of her he can reach, because right now (only right now) she belongs to him.

She's so close, and he opens his eyes. He loves watching her, it's the only moment she ever really lets go, and _feels. _

And just as she goes over the edge, she opens _thosefuckingeyes _and looks straight at him_._

"De-_rek_"

* * *

_You alone can make my song take flight  
Help me make the music of the night_

_The End._

* * *


End file.
